


Sherlock Is Actually A Girl's Name

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Trans Male Character, Trans Sherlock, Understanding John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:52:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't want to fall in love with John. He really doesn't. Because in a new city and in a new life he's managed to keep it a secret. But if he does fall in love with John and let's John fall in love with him, then John will come to know, and John might leave him. After all how could John possibly understand? How could he possibly accept it? That his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was born a woman. That 'Sherlock' is actually a girl's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Scarf

“Why do you always wear that scarf?” John asked one day out of the blue.

“Sorry what?” Sherlock said.

“The scarf, it’s summer time, it’s bloody hot, yet you still wear it around everywhere,” John pointed out.

“Oh that, force of habit,” Sherlock brushed it off, but he felt John’s eyes linger about his throat, and he gulped, “It’s nothing.”

But John had already moved on to the morning’s newspaper, and Sherlock for his part was thankful for whatever pointless elections had taken his attentions away from Sherlock, or more specifically, Sherlock’s neck. John wasn’t the most observant out of the two of them. There was no question about it. Deduction was Sherlock’s gift after all. But Sherlock always feared the lingering glances, the curious stares, the odd questions. _Does he know? Did he figure it out?_

John had been right. It was hot wearing a scarf in summer. It did itch. He did long to take it off. But he couldn’t. He had learned these habits long ago. Turning up the collar of his coat. Buttoning up his shirts all the way. Scarves. Being himself excellent at deducing people, where they had been, who they really were, Sherlock was naturally excellent at concealing who he really was, or more accurately, who he had been.

Yet he was honestly surprised that no one had figured it out. Once alone in the bathroom he could finally take off that scarf. He glanced at his fingers, long, delicate. Victor had once remarked that they reminded him of a woman’s. And if that hadn’t been triggering it might have been amusing. Victor, despite how closer they later got, hadn’t known then either. He looked at his neck, noting the lack of a prominent Adam’s apple, and sighed to himself. It was one vestige of the person he had been.

He often laughed to himself when he realized that John thought he didn’t understand women. Through the whole deal with Irene John had thought he was thrown off by her blatant female sexuality. How wrong he was. Sherlock wasn’t thrown off by women because they were different. He was afraid that they would pick up on all the signs, that they would figure it out. Women could be incredibly perceptive. Incredibly gifted. Sherlock knew this. After all, he was a genius. And he had been born one.


	2. The Victim

“The victim was found this morning by her butler, the man says she wasn’t really the most sociable type, never really interacted with him except when she wrote him his paycheck,” Sally read from the report.

“His, he” Sherlock interjected, “And obviously _Mister_ Waltham wasn’t the most sociable type he was secretly running a drug cartel,”

“How can you _possibly_ know she was running a drug cartel?” Anderson asked.

“He,” Sherlock repeated, “He was running a drug cartel,”

“Sherlock, the file says Erica Waltham,” Sally said.

“Mr. Waltham clearly presented himself as a man, someone found out and used the information to blackmail him, and kill him, now if you would let me explain, and use the correct pronouns, I could actually tell you who the killer was as there’s no way you’ll get this without my help,” Sherlock started.

“Pronouns? Why do you care all of a sudden? You never care,” Anderson asked.

“I-I,” Sherlock stammered, “It’s important to be accurate, a fact you’ll simply never understand,”

“Accurate? Sherlock she doesn’t even look like a man, she’s got breasts,” Sally laughed.

Sherlock had not gotten this feeling in years. A kind of cloudiness in his mind. A weird sick feeling in his stomach. She hadn’t meant anything by it. Not to him anyway. She didn’t know, after all. But _they_ had. Years ago.

How he had hated walking down the streets of London.

_“Oi, pretty lass! Fancy having a drink in my corner?”_

_“Fucking trannie,”_

_“You’re too beautiful to be a man, no way,”_

It made him angry. To hear them saying that. But he couldn’t make a scene. That would give it away. He had already said too much. He turned to John. John, who out of all of them had said nothing this whole time. John had sensed that it had bothered him.

“We’re going,” he announced.

“Okay,” John said simply, “You alright?”

“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock turned up his coat collar, “Just rather tired.”

Back at the flat he expected John to ask. But John only looked at him for a long, long time. They sat on the sofa together in companionable silence. John had turned the television on. The pointless noise filling the void. Taking up the space of the words they weren’t saying.

“It bothered you,” John said finally.

“Yes,”

“I get it,” John nodded.

“What?” Sherlock jerked to face it.

“You’re right to be upset, someone’s gender is their own business, not ours to comment on, there’s nothing wrong with that,”

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly.

“You seem surprised,”

“You surprised me, people rarely do, so treasure it,”

“Look I have a sister who’s a lesbian, you think I didn’t hate it whenever people give her flack about it, when people give my parents flack about it? It’s her fucking life, I just want her to be happy, same thing with this, you can’t say there’s something wrong with something just because it isn’t exactly like you,”

“People like that, they don’t bother you?” Sherlock asked cautiously.

“People only start bothering me when they try to shoot me or you, so no,” John laughed.

“Good policy,” Sherlock nodded.

He felt so oddly happy about this. John understood. John wasn’t like the others. He could tell him. No, no. That would ruin everything. John might be okay with it, with other people. But if he knew that Sherlock…No. John couldn’t know. John could never know. He couldn’t lose him.


	3. The Photograph

“Where’d you find that?” Sherlock asked, his heart racing as he saw the picture in John’s hand.

“Oh it was lying in your room, you’d taken my laptop in there, I was retrieving it,” John looked at the photograph intently, “She’s gorgeous, looks a bit like you. Sister? Cousin?”

“Er…yes, cousin,” Sherlock answered.

“Is she a genius too?”

“Yes,”

“Would I like her?” John asked thoughtfully.

“Balance of probability says yes,”

“You should introduce us sometime she’s in town,” John handed the picture back, “What did you set my laptop password to?”

“The victim did it. All caps,”

“I’m surprised you gave that up without a fight, but I’m not playing Cluedo again if you insist on using your own rules,” John remarked, but when he turned to look at Sherlock he had taken the picture and run off. He could have sworn he heard the sound of muffled crying in the distance, but then the door to Sherlock’s room slammed shut and he knew he had imagined it. Probably some experiment going on in there Sherlock didn’t want him getting his hands on.

It was only later at night that he remembered the look in Sherlock’s eyes when he had talked about the girl in the photograph. He had often stared at Sherlock’s eyes. Such a lovely shade of blue. Just like the girl’s. Sherlock had looked an odd combination of sad, confused, and frustrated when John had asked him about her. But why? Why would he feel that way? He felt like he was dancing around the answer. He might have gotten there too, had sleep not claimed him then and the train of thought being all but lost in the morning. 


	4. The Bullet

“You just had to run after him, couldn’t wait,” John sighed.

“John he had orchestrated five million pounds worth of art forgery,” Sherlock insisted, “The bullet only grazed me,”

“Right, it _only_ grazed you,” John snapped, “Why should that bother me at all?”

“It bothers you a lot,”

“Good deduction,” John said, “Now. You’re going to wait here. I’ll bring my med kit down from my room.”

Oh, oh no, Sherlock realized his error. John would need to disinfect the wound. The bullet had grazed him on the shoulder.

“Take off your shirt, would you? Let me have a look at it,” John said.

“I-I can’t,”

“Does it hurt too much?” John looked confused.

Of course he was confused, Sherlock thought. He extrapolated wildly. What was a good enough excuse as to why he didn’t want John to see his bare chest? Nothing. He had nothing.

“No, um, I’d just rather…” he began.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I’d just um, well, prefer it if you didn’t see, that is, the thing is—“

John looked at him for a bit, and Sherlock could see the thoughts running in his mind, “You know what we can do. You go to your room, take off your shirt. Use the sheet so that only your shoulder’s showing. Come back here.”

“That’s fine?”

John smiled, “I told you the first day, Sherlock. It’s all fine.”

And he meant it. Whatever problem Sherlock had with that. It was alright with him. But even he was beginning to be curious as to what it was. Sherlock had wrapped himself pretty well in the sheet, but as John was disinfecting his shoulder he had seen the edge of some scarring on his chest. Had Sherlock been in some sort of accident in the past that he didn’t want John to know about?


	5. The Date

“I won’t bother telling you, since you probably know exactly what happened already,” John said absentmindedly to Sherlock, who was laying on the couch in his standard thinking pose.

“I do know the mechanics of it,” Sherlock said plainly, “But…”

“But what?” John stopped, surprised.

“If you wanted, we could talk,”

“But you never do feelings,” John said.

“Common misconception,” Sherlock said coldly.

“No, I didn’t mean—“

“I know exactly what you meant,” Sherlock snapped.

“No, please, I’d like that. To talk to you. About this. If you want. But I just never thought you’d want to,” John explained.

“You never thought I’d be at all interested in your life,” Sherlock considered his own words, “A reasonable assumption given my general disinterest in the mundane in general. But the mundane as it pertains to you. I’m not indifferent.”

“So, that means…”

“Start talking,” Sherlock said quickly.

“Well we’ve been going out for a few weeks, but she broke it off, because um, she’s always had the feeling that there’s someone else,”

“Is there someone else?” Sherlock sat up, making room for John to sit next to him.

“No of course not, I’m not like that,” John said defensively as he sat down.

“No you’re not,” Sherlock agreed.

“Then why would she say that?” John looked at him earnestly.

“Could be a multitude of reasons or factors, she could not be ready for a serious commitment at this stage in her life, she could subconsciously dislike one of many qualities about you that she can’t quite pinpoint, she may have a personal fear of intimacy,” Sherlock listed matter-of-factly.

“I just always thought that at this point in my life I’d be married, with a kid or something, one on the way, it’s stupid, and dull, I know,” John admitted.

“I wouldn’t say it’s stupid. Idealistic, maybe,” Sherlock rationalized.

“Idealistic, yeah. That sounds like me.”

“Logically speaking, did you ever try and think of why you might want that?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know. It’s fairly common to, I guess. To want to have someone to come home to, who you’d do anything for. Someone who cares.” John’s eyes were locked with Sherlock’s.

“Idiot, you have that already,”

John is startled. It takes him a second to process. In a strange, roundabout way, Sherlock has told him that he cares.

“I guess I do, thanks Sherlock,” he gets up to leave, “I’m going to turn in now.”

“Good night John.”

“Night.”


	6. Harry

“I hate it when Harry visits, she insists on showing you the most embarrassing pictures of me from when we were kids,” John rants after she’s gone.

“But John it’s hilarious,” Sherlock laughed, “I must say you make the best little King Richard for the grade school play,”

“Shut up, prat,” John throws the Union Jack pillow at him, “Say how come I never get to see pictures of the little you? Seems only fair,”

“There aren’t any,”

“Really? Shall I ask Mycroft?” John says slyly.

“You really shouldn’t,” Sherlock says seriously, his heart racing.

“Did your parents use to dress you up as a girl or something? Believe me mine are worse,” John laughs.

“Just don’t,”

“I won’t,” John’s joking tone is gone and suddenly his hands are on Sherlock’s face, “Your all clammy and pale. Are you okay? Did I say something?”

Sherlock can only shake his head.

“Do you need some water?”

Sherlock nods. And John, his good, kind, non-questioning John, brings it for him. He even holds the glass up to Sherlock’s mouth and holds his hand over Sherlock’s to steady it as he drinks.

Afterwards Sherlock can barely process what’s happening as John gets him to lay down on the sofa and puts his head in his lap. Then John’s hands are carding through his hair and he feels relaxed. The bad feelings and the strange ache going away.

Only when Sherlock’s pulse has reached normal levels, and John has noticed the color in his face does he say it, “If you don’t want to talk about your childhood. We won’t talk about it.”

Sherlock nods once more. John understands. He won’t push him. It’s fine. It’s all fine.


	7. Victor

“Oi, Sherlock is that you?” a dark-haired man with green eyes approaches them on the street.

“Victor, John, John, Victor,” Sherlock says nonchalantly, “Now we really must be going,”

But Victor squeezes John’s hand just a bit too long after he pats Sherlock familiarly on the back, “No time to talk? Even for old times sake?”

“Nope,” Sherlock grabs John’s arm and hurries them along, but Victor falls into step beside them.

“Always dashing off to places, isn’t he? But you’re used to it by now I’m guessing,”

“Yeah, he’s a busy man,” John says neutrally.

“Not to mention the eccentricities, but then again, if you’re with him, you’re probably a pretty open-minded person,” Victor says.

Sherlock increases his pace but John stops in his tracks, “What exactly are you implying?”

Victor shrugs, “Not many people are comfortable with his kind,”

“Now listen here, I don’t know in what context you used to know Sherlock, but I really don’t care. Now. You are going to turn around. And walk in the opposite direction. And never, ever, talk about him like that again. If you know what’s good for you.”

Victor turns away meekly, seeing the look of rage in John’s eyes. And Sherlock can just watch him go in shock.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Sherlock says.

“No I did,” John retorts, “The man’s a maniac,”

“You’re not asking,”

“I am not asking, no,” John confirms.

“We dated once, he’s the only person I’ve ever been with,” Sherlock offered.

“Well I can see why you never wanted to do it again after a jerk like that,” John said.

“He always thought I was some kind of freak anyway, I think he got off on the idea,” Sherlock said as they picked up the pace again.

“I hate him,” John said suddenly, “It never works out that way, but I’ve always thought your first should be someone that really cares about you,”

“The group of people who’ve kissed me and the group that care about me are mutually exclusive, though that’s hardly surprising, considering both the latter and the former have an utterly insignificant population size,”

John leans up on his toes and briefly presses his lips to Sherlock’s mouth.

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock stares at him, shocked.

“I was clued in to the fact that it was probably okay by all the statistics terms you were throwing at me, and um, now you’ve been kissed by someone who cares about you,”

“That was nice,” Sherlock confessed.

“You’re a good person, Sherlock,” John said earnestly, “Don’t let him take away from that,”


	8. The Girlfriend

“I’m not going to compete with Sherlock Holmes,” Emily snaps.

It’s awkward. Because Sherlock’s still in the room.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s your birthday, but someone was murdered,” John attempts to explain, but knows he’s lost this one.

“It’s like _he’s_ your bloody _girlfriend_. Not me. It’s sick. Do you buy him flowers too? Dress him up in cocktail dresses and head for a night out?”

“Emily, please, just listen,” John implores, but she’s already taken her purse and ran out.

 It’s only then that John notices that Sherlock’s shaking. Without thinking he puts his arms around him and rubs his back. But he can’t understand. For the life of him. Why Emily’s comment hurt him so much. It hardly bothers him when Donovan and Anderson imply much worse. About him and John’s relationship. About just him. He never cares what people think, usually. It’s just some specific things, John noticed, some specific things that John still can’t pinpoint really hurt him.

Sherlock eases into John’s touch, and before he quite knows he’s doing it, he’s sort of being held to John’s chest.

“Can you tell me what it is? The thing? I know there’s something,” John whispers quietly as he runs his hands down Sherlock’s back repeatedly, reassuringly.

“I can’t,”

“Okay, it’s okay, you’re okay,”

And somehow, in John’s arms, listening to John’s voice, it is.


End file.
